


Graphite

by Winterhearth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, Fluff, Likewise for steve but we already knew this, Literally so fluffy, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, compassionate natasha romanov, natasha is a good girlfriend, the best girlfriend you could ever have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterhearth/pseuds/Winterhearth





	Graphite

Steve only drew with number-two pencils that could be purchased at any corner mart or discount store. It’s just what he was used to, he told her; but still, he always dragged behind a bit whenever they passed the window of an art supply store, and she found herself tugging him along by the hand a bit until she stopped to let him look. When she’d stop, he’d continue on as if nothing in particular had caught his eye, even when she suggested they go inside and look. 

Sometimes, Steve drew with a black ball-point pen when he didn’t have a pencil on hand. The pens could be bought at a gas station, right alongside the twelve-pack of Dixon Ticonderogas. He liked simple things, he claimed. The simpler the better, that’s what worked best for him; but still, when he took her to museums, she’d wander and take it all at face value. She’d walk briskly from one piece of work to the next, head darting around sculptures and body twisting to accommodate several walls at once, preferring to surround herself with the beauty and vivacity of it all, like music, than to understand what they meant. And she’d circle back, and he would still be staring at the same painting. Gazing, with his sad eyes, almost longing, at the big painting, with whimsical, purposeful brush strokes. And he would look away, as if coming out of a trance, and start to walk off until she would stop him where he stood and turn his head back to the painting with her hand to encourage him to keep looking, however long he wanted. He would never stay there for long after that, insisting it was time to move on. 

When there was no pencil tucked behind his ear and no Bic Cristal in his pocket (which was another ridiculously fancy name for the most basic utensil you could find), he would sometimes draw mindlessly with what was on hand. A bit of flour on the table became a blank canvas for him to drag his finger through however he pleased; ketchup on his plate was formable in interesting ways with a fork and knife. If he zoned out hard enough, he could make art with anything, and she always noticed. It was one of her favorite things about him. She felt him draw pictures on her back one night, in the bubbles of the tired bath they took together. She let him draw beautiful patterns on the back of her hand with her liquid eyeliner on mornings he needed to quietly cope before throwing himself into the day. He’d eventually break the silence and point out that they’d ought to get going rather abruptly, and she found herself missing the feel of his skill, tracing thoughtfully and delicately over her skin. He would apologize for wasting her makeup, but she would keep the marks as long as they’d stay, admiring them more than anything she could do to her face. 

It took her a while to realize that he never got himself nice things. It made him feel guilty. Having been at the bottom, he rarely allowed himself to indulge in the privilege that many people couldn’t have. The convenience of buying whatever he wanted. And now he bought clothes from Goodwill, and purchased his store-brand food in bulk, and owned a used car from 2009. Steve had used pencils all his life because it was all he could ever afford before. He did not have colors, and markers and paints, because he didn’t like buying things for himself that he didn’t need. 

Natasha knew he needed it. And if he wouldn’t get himself these things, then she would. 

She was never good at gifts. She certainly wasn’t good at art. The store they passed had aisles of nonsense, with paints that came in thousands of different tubes and jars and cases, and gadgets she’d never seen before. She had to ask an associate for help, and had no choice but to explain the whole situation. Her sad boyfriend, who only ever did anything for others, who made the most beautiful art but refused to buy himself the proper supplies, who only could really escape his life through this means, and all he had were number two pencils. And- yes, she was who they thought she was, and she was indeed talking about Captain America, to answer a few of their questions. A couple of kind clerks with bleeding hearts joined in to help her compile a large collection of things for a truly experienced artist who hadn’t touched a paintbrush in a long, long time, and she was given a hefty discount. And she bought every last item without a shred of guilt or regret. Because Steve needed this. He needed it more than air. He needed it to calm down, and cope with everything he’d been through and would continue to go through, and he didn’t seem to see that, but she did. 

When he sat and doodled with weary eyes, as the sun poured through the kitchen window onto his face, in the margins of the morning paper. When he stole away after a routine excursion during which each of them acted as if taking the lives of other human beings was easy and unimportant- when he dangled his feet off the back of the jet in the calm after the chaos, and tried to draw something nice, because at least the landscape was pretty there, at least that was a nice memory from all of this that he could keep in his mind. In the middle of the night, when she would wake to find him up in the living room, sitting on the couch, pouring over a drawing of someone or something from his extremely vivid memory, shaking himself apart and trying to hold back tears. 

At first she considered boxing it all up and putting it in wrapping paper. But there was just too much of it, and a lot of it was much too large. So she settled for staging it in the living room, the small area nearly overflowing with canvases and paints and brushes, sets of pencils and charcoal and paper and all the other things that seemed much more obscure to her, but she hoped he would appreciate. 

And when he came home, he was only confused, assuming this to somehow be one of her elaborate schemes that she was known to conglomerate on her own time, but then she informed him, ‘no, it’s for you.’ 

He’d never had this much in his life. He could not fathom using any supply that was brand new, and just for him. He was overwhelmed. And… yeah. Of course, he cried. Predictable, but Natasha had just hoped they could avoid that part. Still, it broke her heart to pieces and reassembled it, stronger, all at once. He deserved the whole entire world and all she wanted was to give it to him. 

Later she watched him make his first brush stroke since art school, ages ago. For a moment, it seemed he didn’t know what to do with himself, so excited and unsure, but it was all natural flow from there. And the first thing he painted was her. She got laid that night. Passionately, passionately laid. And afterwards, he tested his new Micron pens on her skin by giving her little temporary tattoos. 

He tested everything she gave him on every surface he could in the days and the years that followed, but she always remained his favorite canvas. One that loved him back.


End file.
